Passion Leaves a Trace
by Coffee.With.Cinnamon
Summary: “The days draw closer together, leaving no gaps, no spaces to hide into. The days draw closer together, and the sun sets too easy.” AU after 6.04. BJLP that was alphabetic order .
1. Little Girl Blue

**Title**: Passion Leaves a Trace  
**Pairing/Characters**: kind of OOC-ish BJLP (that was alphabetic order).  
**Summary**: "_The days draw closer together, leaving no gaps, no spaces to hide into. The days draw closer together, and the sun sets too easy._" AU after 6.04.  
**Rating**: T that can become M at some point.  
**Disclaimer**: Like I would want to touch _that_ now?  
**Notes**: This is unbeta'd and English isn't my native, so my apologies for any mistakes. I give no warnings except for the rating above, so you read at your own risk. Hard to believe that I started writing this pre-season 5. Obviously, the idea was slightly adjusted to suit the canon plot development, but I think it was good for the story. For those of you who enjoyed my previous multi-chaptered story, this is angst. Humor will be rare and far between in the nearest chapter (maybe later). Mark threw Brooke into a very dark place and then proceeded to ignore his own SL, and I felt cheated out of many intense scenes with Sophia. This is me trying to compensate. R&R, because this is not something I feel extremely secure about and I need your opinions.

* * *

Prologue. **Little Girl Blue**

_I closed my eyes and closed myself _  
_And closed my world and never opened up to anything_  
_That could get me along…_

**/Moby/**

* * *

This isn't a decision she's proud of.

Standing in swirling torrents pooling around her, ruining her Dior pumps, Brooke hopes Carrie Bradshaw, Holly Golightly and all the people at Hallmark die slow and painful deaths. There is nothing remotely romantic about soaking in the rain on Upper East Side. Her body is cold, wet and numb, but her mind's whirring with synapses crackling like burning tumbleweed.

She bargained with the devil herself and she hasn't yet decided if she lost. Yes, Brooke lost the company she gave at least five years of her life to, yet she gained a _**four hundred seventy eight million dollars**_, and yes, she even thought that it in bold italic, and she's not sure the company is even what she's always wanted. One thing she knows for sure is that regardless of her attack being organized by Victoria or not, she does not, and never did, have a mother. It cuts through her veins like a knife, and she's seeping her last hopes for parental love out on the pavement and into the dirty pools of rain at her feet.

One thing she knows, this is not a rational decision. It's been a while, and they say never go back, not to the past. Brooke can't help it, as much as she can't help what she's doing now. She's pondering all night sitting in a diner, a glam and fancy one which is an oxymoron in itself but the only thing Manhattan can offer, wondering about it over coffee and cutting through choices and chocolate chip pancakes, but there's nothing much left to think of. She's done. Decided.

Brooke also figures out the Tree Hill time, so it's about five in the morning when she dials, praying Manitu and whatever gods can bestow luck on her that she gets voice mail, knowing she'll break the moment she hears the first sigh, the first question.

"Hey Nate, it's Brooke. I decided I'll let you be really mad. And I decided I'll deal with this alone. Because you're wrong, we're not really alike. You turned away from a family, Nate, you kept your wife and your kid out, and you nearly lost them. And I don't have that much to lose. Peyton still has the spare key to the house, do with it what you will. It might sound a little overdramatic, hell, I know it is, but I'm entitled to a little melodrama. And a good suntan. So I'll probably catch the next plane to Hawaii or wherever sells beach and long drinks. Give my love to Jamie, I'll be calling and writing him as much as I can. Oh, and tell Deb that it's OK now."

Calling Nathan is logical and calculated. Barring his recent comfort speech, he's least emotionally attached. He's also the one most likely to roll with it. Besides, he produced the one person she feels she betrays. Peyton and Lucas and Haley and Mouth and everybody else are settled enough and distant enough and hurt her enough, but with the little guy, there's just no leverage.

This is not a coherent decision – running scared rarely is – but it's the only one she can make. She hasn't been selfish in years, if ever, and she wants this one thing, just this once, for herself. A room to breathe, time to think, darkness to curl and weep, anesthetics to get by. It's literal but figurative, and she makes so little sense to herself, even, that she knows.

It might not be the most selfless, understandable or good decision, but it's the right one.

And the irony is, of all the things to follow her, it has to be rain.


	2. The Quiet American

…**Ten months later…**

Chapter 1. **The Quiet American**

_I laughed when you were leaving so you'd remember me that way and then I_  
_Found a little hole to crawl in and I cried for a year and a day and it's_  
_Really good to see you, I'd love to touch you too_  
_I know things have changed and you keep away, but can't I say I miss you?  
_**/Diana Anaid/**

There are many reasons why he still remembers Brooke Davis occasionally, apart from keeping the 82 letters taped in a box safe in his bedroom back in Tree Hill and the fact that _every_ goddamn corner of every street in his hometown has some memory of her, and Graham Greene now proves to be one of those reasons. It is because of her fascination with Wong Kar Wai's "In the Mood for Love" and all things Asia that he once read "The Quiet American" to her out loud. And he wonders if he should have known back then.

It is because he's once more in touch with Mouth that Lucas finds himself in a small provincial Vietnamese city, where the old French colonial buildings sit out in the rain like ruining meringues. He finds this kind of rain pitiless, like hot water poured from a bucket. The smell in the air is bilgy, that of a river, but it's been a few lifetimes since something could gross him out. He's seen the river before he came here. He's crossed it.

So it's strange seeing Mouth again, although not really strange seeing him here, since Mouth is the sort of person you're not really surprised to see anywhere, but he can't help the feeling of familiarity, and it doesn't really go with the place. Mouth rises immediately from his chair beneath the café awning and waits unmoving for Lucas to reach him, to fold his umbrella, to realize that he's soaked despite it. Hair a little longer and a little messier, still he doesn't look any different from the last time Lucas saw him, his wedding day to Peyton, what, seven months ago.

"Hey, Lucas. You look grown-up."

"Shit happens," he makes no move to hug or something, neither does his friend. They just sit down.

The waiter comes up, and Mouth speaks to him in a language that may or may not be Vietnamese, and Lucas isn't quite as surprised as he supposes he should be. The waiter comes back soon with another bottle of the local beer that is already open on the table.

"You know not to drink water here," Mouth says, as if it isn't really a question.

"I've traveled a lot recently." And Lucas has. He can now write anywhere, anytime. Except maybe home.

"So I've read," and there's a pause, an 'insert a joke about Lucas Scott's novels here' one, but Mouth is just squinting, looking not at him but across the small shabby square. The traffic consists of older cars and rusty bicycles, sometimes carts drawn by people who either bike them or drag them on foot. Lucas can't help but wonder if he's looking for someone else. He can't be looking out for… of course he can't. That is, after all, the reason he is here.

The pause is getting further along pregnant, dragging out, and Mouth doesn't seem the least bit uncomfortable. Lucas tries and fails to wait it out, and finally says, "So, read my new book?"

"Yeah. This is why I thought I'd better get in touch now. Because when I saw that dedication, I figured you just considered her dead." Lucas shudders, because he does.

They all do, Haley and Nathan, and Peyton and everyone in Tree Hill. When eight months ago the Clothes Over Bro's new president Victoria Davis announced that her daughter, founder and former leading designer of the company, is missing after the latest tsunami in Southern Asia, Lucas started waiting for a call from her, to him or Haley, or Peyton, or Deb, or, hell, a voicemail to Nathan again. In the middle of the night, incapable of sleep for multitude of reasons, he still waits for that call sometimes. His third book has been released just two month ago, written in three short weeks blurred together by anger and hurt and Peyton and Brooke, mostly, because that's who it always comes down to. Written and complete with that sentence in italics that landed him here: "_In loving memory of Brooke Davis, wish someone could've saved you._" And no, the irony isn't lost on him. He struggled over this single sentence, voicing it out loud, twisting it around and embarrassing himself, but what was he supposed to write, really? _I miss you? I'm sorry?_ At least that saving part was true.

Because he couldn't. Save her, that is. But God, does he wish to sometimes.

Lucas swallows some beer. For the past 40 hours or so, since Mouth called, he's been thinking of this obsessively. It formed a headache between his eyes that doesn't go away. Brooke's _dead_ and he's processed that, it's over and finished with. Finished in a stupid and frustrating manner, the whole damn thing is inflamed and truncated, like a severed limb that just wouldn't quite scab over.

Eight month ago, he just pushed it to the side. All of it, meaning to come back to it much, _much_ later, and sublimate it in a painfully sad novel.

Eventually.

When he wouldn't want to slash his wrists every time he thinks about it. When he has more of… something he doesn't have right now. What? He's busy. Being a successful published novelist is time-consuming and a pain in the ass, and he did just break his writing dry spell a little over a year ago and is well on his way to finish a third novel since then, forth in the general count. All before the age of thirty. God, he sounds like a cheesy article on himself. He wonders what his marriage would sound like in an article. Flesh of paper, blood of printer toner. Shallow and toxic, good metaphor. He lets his mouth curl in a sardonic smirk.

The label of his beer bottle is as wet as the khakis that are sticking to his legs, wet as his sandals. He peels the corner off with his fingernail and fidgets. "She was smack in the middle of the storm in Singapore. They said there's no way she could survive it."

"Yeah," Mouth pauses again. Lucas tries to recall if his friend was ever given to such strange pauses. "The other night, I've been to Hanoi CNN office, and to do some shopping. I saw the 'Silhouettes' by Lucas Scott in the newest books section and I couldn't not buy it, y'know. Weird title for a book, by the way, but congratulations on finally writing fiction and not letting out pent up sexual tension. Guess you figured Brooke wouldn't want the book to actually be about her after that cameo she had in the first one. Anyway, saw the dedication, gave you the call."

And said absolutely nothing, that's why Lucas is getting restless and really irritated. Mouth left a message for him at the reception, and gave no specifics. Lucas remembers coming to his hotel room in Bangkok after shooting hoops for four hours with the guys he's met in these past three weeks he's spent trying to finish the book in Thailand, sweaty and tired, and reading a short note telling him to come to Vietnam if he wants to know something about Brooke Davis. Lucas reminds himself to feel guilt over not talking to Mouth for a very long time, only calling him once after he left town, and finding out Marvin McFadden is a reporter for CNN now, covering for Eastern and Southern Asia. But he can't force himself to _feel_ guilty. Too many shoulda woulda couldas haunt Lucas Scott lately – or always. Too few times he picks up his own phone anymore, especially when his wife calls.

"Mouth, I haven't slept for about forty hours, it took two flights to get to Hanoi and a six-hour ride to get here. I'm dead tired, so please tell me what it is. What did you find? Is it about Brooke's death?"

"Four months after the storm, I arrived to Singapore, it was my first job in this part of Asia, I only spoke Chinese then, so I mostly worked in China, but that was huge news with hell of a coverage, it still is to some extent. And anyway, a few days after that I was in provincial Malaysia working on a human interest story, and I got my hands on this video," he opens his hands, palms up front as if the laptop or DVD-R will appear out of thin air by magic trick alone. "There were shots of a hospital there – a little infirmary, really. Good stuff, too, documentary, various angles, shaky frame, blood, gore. A couple of interviews, too, and many talked about this white girl there who only spoke English and French, so the guy shooting the material decided to talk to her." Mouth stops there and sips his beer, as if not planning to continue.

"So, he talked to her?" Lucas is not really sure what to think of it, except that his hands are a little wobbly and his heart booms so loud he remembers he has heart condition.

"I recognized her voice even before I actually saw her. Her swearing was pretty colorful," and it is the first time throughout the conversation Mouth's eyes become a smidge softer.

But it couldn't be true. Lots of girls can swear in a colorful manner. It couldn't have been _her_ because _she_ is dead.

"Why would this girl be in the hospital?" he asks and smacks himself in the forehead mentally. A week after one of the largest storms in the region, where else would half the nation be. But he can't think of it, not really. Lucas can only peel the beer label and try not to remember how it felt, the longest time ago, when they were young and stupid and sincere and better people. How it felt when she was still alive. He promised Brooke she could take the world.

The world took her instead.

He's trembling now, and it disgusts him that Mouth might see it. That Mouth might pay attention to his ring finger. That he himself actually sees it. He's supposed to be over this big rotten mess he's made. And Brooke is _dead_.

"She was pretty different. Ran around shouting something in French, doing stuff. There was no interview so I didn't see much, but I talked to the reporter, the camera man, some locals, found out that she moved, found out where."

They're silent for another minute, then Mouth speaks up, not sure if Lucas understands what he's saying. "Brooke's alive. I talked to her last week, Luke. I talk to her every week. I didn't even know you thought she's dead until I bought your book. I called you as soon as I did."

"And here I am," Lucas mumbles, feeling a tightness in his chest he never even realized was there dissolve. Feeling a nauseatingly butterfly-like hope come alive in his stomach.

"I thought you should know," Mouth adds after one of his now customary pauses. "I thought you'd be happy. That she's… you know… alive."

Lucas flings the half-empty bottle so it smashes against the blank café wall. He rises then, chair tipped backwards. "So do you know where she is?"

* * *

There's no change in rain.

Here, it makes its own dimension, nearly stifling, the steady tattoo of its falling giving Brooke the feeling that she's gone a little deaf. She still loves rain, though, just as much as she did back in North Carolina, if not more. Dai Phuong is a small town, a little like Tree Hill, just a few squares connected by a few streets, scattered messily in all directions. It even has its own river.

She understands bits and pieces of Vietnamese by now, although French gets her by most of the time, and the irony of learning the language to gossip with couturiers and only using it in the foundation-related papers and for grocery shopping isn't lost on her at all. She knows that Dai Phuong means something in the vein of 'the End of the Road', and she recognizes that irony as well.

It's been weeks now, raining relentlessly every night. As water falls and bubbles on the pavement in a steady soothing rhythm, she starts humming to Billie Holiday pouring her heart out from Brooke's laptop speaker (her stereo system, work, lover, life). It's not helping her concentration any, but she's too tired to go through financial reports anyway. It's not helping her horrible mood either, so as soon as she hears Billie whining how excruciatingly hard it is to be "_smoking, drinking and never thinking of tomorrow_", Brooke bites hard into her pillow, pulling her knees up to her chin, and starts bawling. For a while now, she stubbornly believes that this sort of hysteria is merely the easiest way to let all of her emotions go, so she does this simple exercise every friggin' evening, resolutely and steadfastly, with a conviction that would amaze any therapist. After that, she usually just falls into a deep, clammy sleep.

Brooke's in Vietnam for three months already, the foundation renting her a tiny apartment, part-time office and living quarters in one. Her door is made of adjustable wooden slats, as is the covering of the glassless window beside it. Both set into a faded colorless stucco wall, both newly painted bright red by her. It's a hundred-year-old French building, repurposed so many times since construction that it's impossible to tell whether it started out as residential. The walls are so thin, everything going on in the street is plainly audible, and vice versa. She used to find it unlivable. The appalling apartments she was provided with, the heat, the odor, the desolation. But Brooke's a cheerleader. No, scratch that, now, Brooke's a survivor. Quite literary, too, not just that Destiny Child song.

"This is it," she wakes abruptly to hear someone saying in a voice suspiciously like Mouth's. "Would you like me to stay?" Brooke feels her irritation rising, because it is Mouth, who said nothing about visiting when she called last week. She's not expecting guests, she's not dressed for them either, but Brooke's also too riled up with the aftereffects of her crying fit and interrupted nap to do something about it. There's a quiet, except for the rain running thick in the gutters of the poorly-paved street. Then…

"Hello," she hears a pitched voice through the slats, "can I come in?" It sounds reasonable and almost calm. It sounds… Lucas Scott. It makes the skin on her nape crawl, the heat rush up into her face and her heart waits a long _terrible_ moment before committing two stumbling beats at once.

"Come in," she answers automatically, brain cells paralyzed, voice raspy and low. Well, raspier and lower then her usual. The knob turns sharply, surely, and there he is, blinking furiously, as if incapable of seeing in the dull light of her room with window slats only half-open, and then incapable of believing what he sees. And in an infinite moment, the spell is broken.

Lucas furls his umbrella quietly and takes a deep sigh. Brooke is sitting still, heart double-beating in that painful way that surprises her so much, yet isn't surprising at all, waiting for him to make the first move.

_Any_ move, really.

And he's staring, taking in the general proportions of her tiny room, the untidy bed draped in mosquito netting, the bedside table littered with documents, drawings and a couple of books, the slowly whirling ceiling fan, the rattan chair with a girl curled in it. The walls and ceiling are a brownish yellow, mapped with cracks and dark patches of damp. It's as if she sees herself with his eyes, tiny top and shorts serving as her pajamas, body too thin and tired, eyes red and blotchy, she must look almost sick. While he looks so, so _good_, gorgeous and broody and grown up, lean figure all too visible because of the wet polo shirt sticking to every muscle, every inch of him handsome and successful. Something she used to be.

The silence is hanging over their heads like an old wet mattress, stifling, tiring, disconcerting, and Brooke's heart keeps stumbling over it's own beat, as if to catch up with the world suddenly spiraling at dizzying speed around the room.

And then finally he darts forward without a thought and she's breathless, pulled up and crushed in a hug almost too tight for her ribs to endure. He's touching her, all over, and Brooke is almost embarrassed, but the touch isn't intimate at all, and he keeps asking, "Are you alive?"

She is. She thinks she is, so she answers, "I am."

His skin is hot and slick with fresh sweat and raindrops when she puts a hand on his arm. She's been sweating all day long — they both probably were. Another moment, and then she can't help it anymore. She shrinks back from his touch, but not before he's felt the life in her body.

"I'm OK. What are you doing here, Lucas?" And she sees him deflate after those words, as if something that helped him stand before has just left his body. And Brooke even feels for him – here he is, in a far, far away place, and he finds his friend – that's how she supposes he perceives her – in what he thinks is terrible trouble. Right about time for that hero complex to kick in. And she knows that her life now looks, and smells and sounds like trouble. And Lucas has always been so good at looking after people – _other then her_, of course – and taking care of them. It's a bitter and ugly thought, so she murders it violently.

"Brooke," he starts and falls silent again. Shakes his head confused. She slumps back in the chair as he paces around the room until settling finally on the edge of her bed. He sighs again, even deeper this time. "You didn't die. How?.. I mean, you didn't... Why didn't you.. call and tell me?"

She casts about for some answer to this, glancing around helplessly at the standing lamp with its dirty canary yellow shade, the table where Vietnamese newspapers are spread amidst more documents and drawings, and her laptop, from which Chet Baker now pitifully confesses that he and Brooke both "_fall in love too easily, fall in love too fast, fall in love too terribly hard for love to ever last_".

Brooke feels all his instincts on her: forcing her to look at him, to talk. Those are old, bad, wrong instincts, back from the time when he had a right to force her like that, to demand her undivided attention, her blatantly truthful answers. But he's still Lucas Scott, so of course he doesn't care about what he's got a right for.

Seconds blend together in an almost solid mass, so tangible that has she even had an answer, she'd be unable to voice it. But she doesn't.

Have an answer, that is.

"Brooke, what happened to you? After, and during… you know, the storm? We all thought you died there. And when you left… how come you couldn't…" He keeps pushing, pausing, demanding and her eyes are now closed tightly. "I thought you died." And he sounds so condescendingly full of pity, so broken that her anger flames instantly under her eyelids.

"Well, as far as you're concerned, I did, about a year ago." And Brooke knows it's mean and cold-hearted, but Lucas is the first one to act inappropriately, coming here and acting as if he's some sort of scorned boyfriend she ran away from. After his sharp intake of breath, she continues quietly, quickly, yet not quite apologetically. "And it's not like it's your fault or I blame you, or anything. But even before the storm… It's been a while since we've been friends, Luke. I left Tree Hill behind for a reason, you know. I had a reason to stay away. And it's a little to late to act as if you missed me."

"It is not fair," and the hurt in his voice is even more apparent. "I still cared if you were alive or dead. We all did!"

"Isn't it, though?" She chuckles humorlessly, hands twitching slightly on her lap, eyes still downcast, but now watching him from the corners. "We once went almost three years without a single phone call, or even e-mail. And being busy is a lousy excuse. At least I know why I never bothered to contact you from New York. Bet you don't even have an explanation."

"At least up until eight month before we all knew you were OK," Lucas talks to her empty and somewhat dirty floor now, studying the cracks, not quite willing to repeat eye contact either.

"Did you _really_?" she asks, words dripping sarcasm, and he flinches, as if slapped. He very much hates it when he is wrong; at the fact that she is right to some extent makes it even worse.

"So this was your punishment? To me, to everyone? You let us think that you died and you let us blame ourselves for not saying goodbye, not being there when it counted. How could you do that to Peyton, your best friend? God, Brooke, what happened to you? This isn't you." He's switched on to furious now, up from her bed, pacing.

She's paused for a moment, her heart skipping beat after beat. "Would you consider the fact that for once, not everything is about your precious Peyton?" She can't force a tinge of bitterness out of her voice. "I'm not afraid to admit I was selfish, because I was, but for fuck's sake, wasn't I allowed to? For once, I did what I had to do – not what Peyton needed or Haley thought was right, or you sweettalked me into. I needed to get away. And you know what, Lucas Scott? I needed to get away from you. From people of that bumfuck town. You know what else? I've never really hidden the fact that I was alive and kicking. From press, maybe, but certainly not from you. Rachel, or my bitch of a mother, people at Cloths Over Bros offices… _anyone_ could have told you I was OK. Mouth definitely would even tell you where I am, seeing as that's exactly what he did. So the question you should be asking yourself, Haley and your precious Peyton, is how come you never even thought of asking either of them, or _any_ people in my life, about what happened to me after the storm? God, I don't even know if you ever once wondered why I left in the first place…" And Brooke feels so tired, like it's more effort then she can gather to just pronounce the words.

Lucas is frozen by then, so quiet it appears he's not even breathing. He seems shell-shocked by her words, desperate to take a breath and say something, anything, but Brooke continues talking before she won't be able to say anything at all, before she just melts from his mere presence. "One thing I wonder, though, is how come you even decided I was dead? It's not like there were invitations to a funeral or memorial. I bet there are no graves or tombstones of mine for either of you Tree Hill folks to visit for respect-paying and a little mourning, or maybe even grieving, and if you'd only tried to find me I'm pretty sure the lack of a resting place would give away my current living status." She sighs dejectedly. "I don't even want to deal with it right now. Go back to your life, Luke. Go home, to Peyton or whatever."

Brooke stands up and walks slowly to the door, opening it again to force him to get out. She hopes Lucas will never be able to tell how utterly _petrified_ she is.

* * *

It's a mistake, coming here. What Brooke just said hurts like hell but isn't completely true, Lucas recons. He closes his eyes for a second, and the truth washes over him in a cold tidal wave. This is all a huge misunderstanding. But all of their relationship, ever since he found Brooke Davis stripping in the backseat of his car, was a series of misunderstandings, of hurting each other while never really intending to.

But he is, despite himself, curious about her. Curious and worried sick.

"All right, Brooke. I won't impose on you right now. But just tell me, are you… OK? Is this," he gestures vaguely around her place, "is this of your own free will? What you chose?"

His gaze settles on her once again, and Lucas can't look away, he feels like he'll never be able to. She would make a perfect scene right now. A portrayal of some emotion he can't quite name yet, a beautiful and sad scene in that book he knows he's not yet ready to write. He keeps noting every detail about her, every little thing that's changed in the girl. She's even smaller then he remembers her to be, and he remembers her tiny. She's not slender anymore, she's plain thin, closer to anorexic, but she looks much stronger, all bones and toned, supple muscles. Her hair is really long now, ends reaching the small of her back, but it's lost its reddish tint or silky shine that came from ridiculously expensive hair products. The Brooke he knew would never style her hair so carelessly, as if she only remembered of a hairbrush every other day. He realizes again, alarmingly, that he doesn't know her at all, and he never really bothered to get to know the new, out-of-high-school Brooke Davis. Her eyes are different, not just the expression, because he doesn't even want to go about deciphering what's in her gaze. She's obviously been crying. Her irises are greener, as if the golden hue that's been there was just the reflection of her bubbly optimism, as well as her now-absent dimples. He remembers her complexion: all cream and peaches and summer and girl. She's that much paler now, almost sickly so.

He takes a deep breath, as if expecting an answer, but after a long empty pause, Lucas continues nonetheless. "Do you, maybe… do you have enough money? Because if you're broke, or sick, or in any trouble… I don't want to leave knowing you're in some kind of trouble, Brooke." He doesn't want to leave at all. Lucas rubs his ring finger absentmindedly, not allowing his thoughts to drift in that particular direction.

But it's none of his business, sort of. Except that he wants to make it his business. Brooke's unmoving, only her knuckles on the doorknob are getting whiter by the moment. The door is still wide open, and some of the raindrops glisten on her skin now. They're both silent for another second, and then she deflates visibly.

"I know you mean well, Luke. And I know you'd really like to wrap me up and ship me off to Tree Hill. But I'm living my goddamn life here. The life that I deserved." Like this is any kind of life, really. "I'm sorry, too. If I'd have known you were worried, or thought I died or something, I'd of course let you know I'm OK. And I'm sorry for what I said about Peyton and everyone. I mean, you really _were_ good friends and it wasn't your fault I couldn't stand to be in Tree Hill anymore. And I'm also terribly sorry you had to come all the way to Vietnam for this. And that I couldn't turn it into a nice friendly visit, although a nice friendly warning that I'll have guests would have helped."

And he feels that she's serious and honest about it. He's at a loss as to what to say or do. Brooke watches him silently for a couple of minutes, then sighs and comes up to embrace him lightly. He sucks in a breath, surprised by her sudden softness and unexpected painful tightness in his own chest.

"For what it's worth, I'm not mad at you, and I don't want you to be mad at me, Luke. I don't wanna part ways, possibly forever, with us hating each other." And it's been a very long time since Lucas was insanely in love with Brooke Davis, but the verbal expression of them parting ways forever tears something in his heart silently, a gashing hole he doesn't think he can live with. "I wish we weren't quite as estranged as we are, but being friends shouldn't be this hard, you know?"

"Yeah," he answers tiredly, "I know." And he does. It used to be too hard to _be_ Brooke's friend, but only because it felt so good… too good. And this is not something he should allow himself to think if he wants to remain sane. He pulls her into another hug, this one so much tighter, but lasts just a second, just enough to inhale her smell before letting go of her completely.

He is out the door, umbrella in his hands, water already in his hair again, when he finally says what he wanted to since he saw her curled in that chair, sick, small, lonely and a little pathetic, but still obnoxiously beautiful.

"I really, really missed you, Brooke. And I'm sorry that I didn't make an effort to be there for you, or that I wasn't the friend you wanted and deserved me to be. And I'm sorry Tree Hill is such a thorn in your side now. I'm sorry you never let me take care of you. But that doesn't mean that I didn't miss you like hell."

"So you keep saying," she comes back, closing the door slowly, with finality.

And Lucas believes it is a blessing that the walls of the building a hear-through, because it's after she closes the door and he's drenched in hot sour rain, incapable to move his back away from the door, that Brooke whispers that she missed him too.


	3. X is the Lonelies Letter

Chapter 2. **X Is the Loneliest Letter**

_I promise I'm not trying to make your life harder_  
_Or return to where we were._

**/Dido/ **

…x…

"I don't know what to do," Lucas drops a sigh into his plate and it swirls with noodles in his soup, following the movement of his spoon.

He doesn't even expect Mouth to be able to tell him what to do.

His friend reaches across the table and puts more soy sauce on his own noodles, stirring them around with the chopsticks. Lucas idly notices that, while Mouth is a professional, he himself has still not mastered the art of eating with chopsticks. They're of course staying in the same hotel: it's the only one in town. It is ostensibly air-conditioned, but the dining room is only cooled by ceiling fans going at a pace that makes Mouth's longish hair blow around his face and stick to sweaty skin. There is an ancient, noisy window unit in his room that he's set going as soon as he got back, in the hopes that it would be cool enough by time he's eaten to maybe get some sleep. His skin feels dirty even right after he takes a shower. The air everywhere has an unpleasant thickness to it. Still, it's a little cooler then Brooke's apartment and he again wonders what makes her – how can she possibly – live like that.

And – surprise – it is _still_ raining.

"Do you have any idea what's going on?" He asks, not for the first time. "What does she even do here?"

"Brooke works here," is Mouth's apathetic answer, and it's quite clear that he won't say much more.

"Yeah, but what does she _do_? I've seen some papers around, drawings, even, and wow, she's gotten so good, but none of them were designs, and…"

"Look, Lucas, whatever you need to know about Brooke, ask her yourself. I'm not really in the position to tell. Besides, I don't really know all that much." And he doesn't. Mouth doesn't know because both he and Brooke remind each other of Tree Hill and of people they left there, for better or for worse, and they, neither of them are the same people anymore, he's not the same, thanks for asking. He doesn't say that – thanks for asking – or even imply it, but Lucas doesn't need to be guilted to feel guilty. Not at the moment, anyway.

"How are you?" is belated, but still appreciated.

Mouth just nods.

"Is life more good or bad?" Lucas is asking, now curious.

"It's sixty-five to thirty-five, I guess, with good on the winning side." Mouth answers after considering the question for at least a minute, and Lucas figures those are good odds. "And you should know that Brooke is not the person you used to know. Neither are you, from what I can tell." He nods tiredly.

"I just don't understand how it got so bad, how we lost touch so bad that I didn't even know she's alive. How it came to the point where we didn't even… I don't know if you know this, but before she left… Well, I think, the _reason_ she left…" There's a pitiful sigh now, hanging off the wall between himself and Mouth, and Lucas wonders briefly if maybe a similar wall has been there with Brooke without him even noticing. If he's build the same retaining wall from Peyton.

Bar a single post-school meeting, which happened about a year after their graduation, lots of senseless pondering and some M-rated details, Mouth knows his history with Brooke Davis, romantic and otherwise, pretty well. He has his own perspective on it even, having been Brooke's confidant and for a while there her best friend. And Lucas wants to try bouncing his thoughts about the matter off of someone who's a little objective and quite knowledgeable. To his sheer astonishment, it is Mouth who starts talking about Brooke again, not himself.

"She's… kinda depressed."

Well,_ duh. _That's exactly why Lucas is so confused.

"And when she's depressed… Brooke's not Peyton." And Lucas knows _that_ better then anyone. "She doesn't need… when Brooke's depressed, she doesn't _want_ to lean on people, she just wants to be on her own." And Mouth makes a little sense, but then he doesn't know what Lucas knows. Things about Peyton _and_ Brooke – lots of things – that are private, that he doesn't want to talk over with himself, let alone anyone else.

"Maybe if I could…"

"I don't think she really wants to talk to you, Lucas" Mouth suggests.

Lucas drops his spoon into his soup angrily. "Well, what then? What am I supposed to do? I mean, you got me here, so you tell me what to do now!" Lucas likes feeling angry. It's the most uncomplicated emotion of what he's feeling right now. It's the only reaction that makes sense to him at this particular moment.

"I figured you would want to know she's alive. To see it with your own eyes. The rest is up to you." And Lucas doesn't need to be on the ground to admit he's defeated. At least not at the moment.

They cool off for a couple of minutes, and then talk about their travels. Lucas tries to be pleasant and friendly, cracks a couple of jokes. Afterwards, he calls Haley. Thanks God for Skype.

"What would you want me or Nate to do if you were depressed?" he asks. There's a silence on the line.

"I can't afford to be depressed. I have Jamie and a hundred twenty seven kids who have no idea of life or English Literature. And of course Nathan, who isn't that much more mature most of the time." There's a slight pause, then Haley asks, "Where are you calling from?"

"I'm in Vietnam. I'm not sure I can pronounce the name of this place right, Dai something. It's hot and raining like you wouldn't believe. Trust me, Seattle has nothing on this place. I doubt I'll ever dry off."

"Vietnam?" she doesn't really sound shocked, just somewhat resigned. Lucas spent most of these past months traveling from one exotic location to another trying to put as much distance between himself and his home as he could. "Did you talk to Peyton?"

And he's tired and pissed at hearing the question over and over again. "No, and I'm not going to. Not at the moment and probably not this month, Haley, and I would really appreciate it if you dropped the subject. You've done enough pushing, don't you think?"

Peyton is a very sore spot, still. That whole proposal encounter, engagement and wedding left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth; it is a place in his memory he doesn't like to have to go to. He rubs the spot on his third finger where the ring should be and wonders how things can go downhill so fast, crash so hard, marvels that his hand is so evenly tanned it's impossible to even notice that the ring was there. Perhaps a comet was a right metaphor to use after all, what with it appearing for the shortest time and fading without a trace, returning to its normal state of a block of ice. He also wonders how everyone and even Peyton herself wished to be compared to the sphere of frozen gas randomly rotating around bigger objects in space. A very, very sore spot, indeed.

"That's not fair, Luke," Haley sounds pained, and he sighs in resignation. "I can't help but worry about you."

There's static on the line and he allows himself to drawn in it for a moment, feeling the tiredness creep up his forearms and shoulders. "Rock and a hard place, huh?" As his best friend chuckles humorlessly, Lucas continues, "I didn't ask you to take sides, Hales. Remember, when I left, all I asked of you was space."

Haley sounds stern suddenly. "Well I didn't quite imagine your time/space continuum would be _that_ relative. Almost five months, Luke, and you're on the other hemisphere, I just thought you'd punished her enough." The last thought itself infuriates Lucas, and he has to take a deep steadying breath before he can talk.

"This is not about punishment, Hales. I'm a strong believer in Karma now, after all, I have to be. Think of it as a… sabbatical. And anyway, not the reason I'm calling at all. Are you pregnant, buddy?" she laughs at the abrupt and light change of subject, and he has to smile for the first time in a long while now. She isn't, so he fills her in. "Brooke's alive. She's here, in Vietnam."

"Brooke?" her voice hitches. He waits for his best friend to come around, grasp the concept and finish her incredulous squealing and goes on. "Mouth found her. He's here, too, sort of. I went to see her today. She's alive, I wouldn't say she's peachy or extremely healthy, but she's alive. And apparently, we were the only ones who presumed that she was dead. Hales, did we actually call anyone when we saw the news? Her mother, her office?" Because beats him, he's been trying to remember for hours now, and he can't.

"I… don't think so. Oh my God." They are both silent for a moment, contemplating the fact. "And what is she doing in Vietnam?"

"I don't have a slightest idea. But she's not doing so well from what I can tell. She's so… different." This newly minted Brooke 2.0 might as well have come from another planet, for all that he knows and can understand of her now.

"Oh…" _Yeah, oh_. "What do you suggest we do?" He wishes he would know what to answer to that. So he tries to sound his most assured.

"It doesn't seem that she wants help, at least not from me. So I don't know what to do, but I'm not gonna leave until she at least talks to me." He was going to, really, was going to let her have it her way, work it out herself since she so obviously didn't want him anywhere near her, but then she whispered that confession through the door. And if Brooke Davis _missed_ _him,_ _too_, Lucas doesn't know what else to do but stay.

He expects a smart advice on how to handle that conversation, so he's stunned into immobility when Haley asks in a quiet, serious tone, if she should come out there and help him. Tears burn in his eyes, and he almost says yes. 'Yes, yes, _yes_, please help me, buddy, the way you used to!' But then he remembers Nathan, and Jamie. He can't drag Haley away from her family. Brooke might go easier on Haley then himself, but she wouldn't be any more open. Brooke isn't one to divulge her secrets when she doesn't want to. At least she wasn't.

"Thanks, Hales, but I'm probably better on my own. Just… I'll visit her again tomorrow, maybe I'll find something out. I'll call with the news. Kiss my nephew for me, 'k? Love you, bye."

The air conditioner in his room labors noisily, but the temperature is still at least eighty five when he goes inside. His bed is lumpy, and he doesn't care to look too closely in any of the dark corners.

In the middle of the night, the sudden silence wakes him up. He lays there for a long moment, startled and dizzy, until he realizes it's a power cut. The only sound is the insistent rustle of the rain. Rising, he opens the French-style windows into the night. The town lays in darkness, bare of the city lights he's now so used to. For a moment the air outside feels almost cool against his face. Staring into the black, he reaches for a smoke and searches his pockets for a lighter, and wonders what happened to Brooke, and why he cares so much.

…x…

Brooke is convinced Chinese had a torture exactly like this, the meticulous dripping sound driving victims insane.

How is it even possible that something burns in this constant rain, she wonders.

Sweat trickles from her armpits, and down her back, making her squirm. The ceiling fan only seems to accentuate the terrible heat. Between that, the smoke from the street and a dull throbbing heartache that's possessed her since Lucas' visit, it is almost impossible to get a breath.

After Brooke's sure Lucas left, she goes out for some food. The market place, with its medley of vivid aromas and stinks, is almost outside her door. She'd wondered, as she first moved in this room, how she will stand the noise just on the other side of the thin wooden slats. But now, perhaps she likes it. It is company of a kind.

Music by someone old and long dead drifts from her beloved laptop, voices scratchy and tinny at points. She finds a bowl and chopsticks and a soup spoon made of china they use here, and sets if not an attractive table, at least a neat one.

The _pho_ steams in the center. She's sweat-streaked, and regards the hot food with apprehension, not sure if she can quite eat. Brooke knows she has to support herself or something, but doesn't really comprehend why. But, she figures beef broth doesn't kill you if tsunamis and assaulters can't.

She hasn't yet figured out the extent of her own frailty. She is plenty strong enough to go about her routines, but she fails to move the table more to the left. She's managed to live through a meeting with Lucas, but doubts that she'll be able to go to Tree Hill and face everyone in their natural habitat. Frustrated, she goes to the shower and stays in the bathroom for a very long time. When she emerges and notices her body in the mirror, she's pleased: hair combed, skin reddened where she's scrubbed at it. She feels healthier, better. She feels good enough to call her best friend.

Brooke knew she'll have to the moment she identified a person occupying her doorframe as Lucas Scott, even more so when she realized she was dead to her past in more meanings then she intended when leaving town.

"Hello…" Peyton's sleepy sigh travels through satellites, outer space and Brooke's speaker. It is suddenly that much more impossible to draw a single breath. Brooke swallows a tight ball of emotions suddenly lodged in her throat, swallows again because it's this stupid heart of hers and it refuses to move.

"Hey, P. Sawyer," her voice scratches through the lines as a paring knife would, all slicing nerves and edge and pain. She does, however, feel slight satisfaction when she hears a loud gasp and a scared, exited whisper of her name.

"Yup, it's me, alive and kicking, and before you ask, Peyton, I didn't know you considered me dead. I didn't mean to confuse or mislead anyone, and I'm sorry if I did." Brooke's happy to have gotten it off her chest.

"_If_ you did? Brooke… You have no idea how hard it was without you," Peyton's voice is strong and confident as usual, and she draws comfort from it as vampire would suck blood off a pretty little virgin. Brooke doesn't think there's anything in the world she's missed more then this comfort, "and so much has happened. Listen, Deb talked to us after you left. I'm so… We're gonna have a very long, very serious talk about it when you get back. When are you getting back, Brooke?" The questions are missiles aiming faultlessly at her heart, it seems, for Brooke can feel the impact of every syllable reverberating in her chest.

"I'm… I don't think I can, Peyton. Not now." _Possibly not ever_. "I miss you, but I can't."

There's never been a silence that painful in zeroes and ones, Brooke recons. Then Peyton starts to talk, and Brooke wishes they were back to that silence she hated just a few seconds ago.

"Lucas is divorcing me, Brooke. And I'm not even sure if I want to fight it, anymore. And things have been so horrible for me. You have to come back, because I _need_ you. I need you and there's no one else." It shouldn't hurt her as bad, shouldn't be a surprise that they got married, but it is somehow. "I'm so sorry, Brooke, I want to tell him that and he doesn't want to hear it. Lucas ran away from the country to not listen to me, and it hurts so much."

"I know it does," Brooke whispers in the phone. The man who could have been her lover and could have been hers stands between them, before her, and it breaks another chip off their friendship. She doesn't know how much of it is left in her heart.

Before a nine-year-old inside her who swore to protect her tiny and vulnerable curly-haired friend can answer for her, Brooke sucks in air, loudly. "It hurt me more, Peyton. I wish you'd care about that." She hangs up before anything else can be said, cutting off enough ties that she gets more time for her redemption, for the peace she strives so desperately to find.

She is. Hurt more then she's ever been. When Peyton's voice trembles and breaks down at the mere mention of Lucas' name, she sucks it up and keeps her bottom lip from trembling.

She accepts her obvious love for him like a penitent sinner accepts a cast stone.

Brooke's about to start her crying exercise when her phone rings, and her breath hitches. It's unlikely that Peyton can (or would) just redial, yet a part of her is still terrified of reprisal.

"I'm halfway through avenue Montaigne and I have my heart dead set on faubourg St-Honorẻ, and just because you gave up shopping… damn it, I shouldn't have worn these pants. The underwear is really riding up."

Brooke, despite the worst of moods, has to at least snicker at that. Her heart lifts suddenly and soars with gratitude almost to the point of bursting. "Oh my God, is my favorite slut actually wearing underwear?"

"Tell ya what, BFF. If ya ain't wearing it now, I won't ever again," Rachel suggests, and Brooke can almost picture her other life, the one she had just a year, or even two, ago. She used to love faubourg St-Honoré, staying on Montmartre just because there aren't many things quite as serene as Sacré-Cœur early in the gray Parisian morning. Brooke still dreams of Paris every other night, and does her hair in a French twist the next morning.

"Well, I _am_ just fresh out of shower," she pauses just to send the redhead a few satellite-enhanced pins and needles for a second, "But I guess you've called five minutes too late."

"I'm not sure if that's a good thing, but whatever. You just woke up? It's, like, five-ish here in Paris." Her body is sprawled on the bed, lethargic enough to not want to move anymore. She reaches for the nightstand and grabs honey-scented lotion. Moisturizing is the shit, really.

"Well, it's eleven-ish in The Hellhole, and I just had the worst day, and I shudder to imagine what this call would cost me, or you, but I need my girltalk, and I need it now," and Brooke recons it's her well-deserved right, since she _did_ force Victoria to hire Rachel again, a five year contract her lawyers struggled over and Victoria was close to stroke about, so now the girl owes her big.

"You still have those nightmares?" Brooke does, of course she does, she probably always will and she's accepted it, but it's really beside the point, and there just isn't enough money on her cell to prevaricate.

"More like, an old one just came alive…" She sounds sharper than she intends. She keeps rubbing the lotion in her legs, and finds out her fingers can wrap around her ankle now, and she supposes it puts her a little on the frail side.

"Oh, hun', did Victoria call you? That bitch just never stops, and I swear…" Victoria Davis is the subject either of them can rant about for days not even having to take a breather, but again, so not what's bothering Brooke at the moment.

"Lucas Scott has showed up in my doorway exactly four hours ago. Hence the old nightmare reference." She swears she can _see_ Rachel gape, sigh, snicker, swallow and sigh again.

"Are you telling me you've been having mad passionate sex with your ex for the past four hours and took shower with him and for some _inane_ reason you're now putting on your clothes? Trust me, girl, you _want_ to get back in that bed. Years of abstinence call for more long-term compensation."

"I still wonder how you manage to shop with your head obviously constantly in the gutter." She finds the whole idea of having sex with Lucas – again – absurd and depressing, and tries to settle more comfortably underneath the covers, working the lotion into her elbows. "I did not screw Lucas. Actually, I basically threw him out. But… imagine this – he actually thought I was dead! Go figure."

She hears honest giggling after that, and Rachel brags how she's obviously done her job so well in hiding 'the hottest fashion celebrity of Manhattan' from paparazzi. She confirms, though, that neither Haley nor Peyton called to check on Brooke's or her well-being since the storm.

"You have to kick Mouth's ass though," Brooke adds as an afterthought. "Sure, he has an OK to tell whomever about me, but couldn't he just give Lucas my number and have him give me a call?"

"Well, it's Lucas Scott, your biggest, dare I say only, crush, and only the most mulish man in history. I figure Mouth didn't have much choice in the matter," Rachel offers carefully.

"Lucas wasn't a crush," Brooke sighs, as if admitting it to herself is more then her heart can possibly take. "He was a full-on _crash_." Some people don't explore the repercussions to their actions, and Lucas friggin' Eugene Scott is one of them. Whatever mistake he makes, he snaps back in a matter of days, and on the rare occasion something forces him to remember, he's already moved on and expects everyone else to. And she still cares too much anyway.

"Whatever, hon'. Maybe the universe does that on purpose." _Of course it does_, Brooke thinks, then decides to specify.

"Does what on purpose?" It was so obtuse of her, to fall in love with him back in the day only to bite her nails in desperate hysterical fits now, trying herself to move on. But she sort of has a lot bigger issues then Lucas-drama now, and it's a start.

"Brings you back your soulmate right when you need him the most." And it's not the comment she _ever_ expected from Rachel, however sarcastic her voice is. The sheer ludicrousness of it makes her take a moment to collect her wits.

"Well, ho, never thought I'd be the one to tell you, but soulmates only exist in the Hallmark aisle of Duane Reade Drugs. And I don't _need_ Lucas, or anyone, for that matter, to save me, thank you very much." But she does, a little. So miniscule, in fact, that it doesn't even matter most of the time, but she's still trying and marvelously failing to save herself.

"No fooling the universe, Brookie." Well, it does have one hell of a sense of humor.

"Bite my fat ass, Rae." She hangs up and her mood dissolves again, leaving her blank and tired.

She rolls and hugs her pill, momentarily considering another therapeutic crying fit. Maybe, the treatment she chose is right. Maybe, she just needs another dosage. She stops when the power is cut, and lets the rain continue crying for her.


	4. Plaster Dented From Your Fist

A/N: it's a longer then usual and somewhat disjointed chapter, and I apologize in advance before you bother reading. I could keep agonizing over it (and this fic is incredibly hard to write), but I've been keeping you waiting long enough, so here it is. I can not express how much I love all of the reviews I got on this story. There are few, but every single one is precious. I know this story is progressively dark so far, but I can promise it'll get better. I know that the whole Peyton/Julian thing seems random and OOC now (not to me, but to you maybe), but I promise there is a very good and solid explanation to everything and everyone and we'll get to it if you're patient with me and I'm actually able to write. Thank you again, and apologies for winded and poorly phrased introspections Brooke and Lucas have in this chapter. Next one, I'll proofread more. This one, I've already given up on.

* * *

Chapter 3. **Plaster Dented From Your Fist**

_We've been running round in our present state  
Hoping help would come from above  
But even angels there make the same mistakes in love_

**/****Roxy Music****/**

…x…

In the morning, he brings Mouth to the dispensary with him, to interpret. The place is run by some sort of WHO agency. At first the head nurse doesn't want to give out much information about Brooke. Lucas says, "Tell her I'm her husband," slipping his ringless hand into a pocket, reeling because of the shiver that still runs through the already tanned – barely ever white – circle there. It's not much of a lie, though. He could have been, they _have_ been engaged, however falsely or temporarily. The nurse, who beneath a tight wimple has one of those inexorable, humorless faces, gives him a severe looking over, but finally she gives Mouth some directions. Turns out he really doesn't know much about Brooke, he's never been to her office.

Lucas woke up at seven and spent two hours talking to hotel staff. In a town as small, it wasn't hard to find people who know about Brooke. It was harder to find someone English-speaking, but he managed that. He managed to corner Mouth into going with him. He hasn't figured out, though, what the hell is Brooke doing having the office in a cardiology and pulmonary dispensary.

"By the way, you're Mr. Davis now, so smile and nod when she calls you that." Lucas nods, even though no one actually called him that yet, but he can't pull a smile on. It never really suited his face all that well.

"Apparently, she goes by Madame, not Mademoiselle. And not by Brooke. She maybe uses her middle name?" Mouth turns this into a question in the last possible moment, and his voice sounds squeaky from the abrupt change of cadence.

"Maybe, but I never knew it." He never asked. It seems absurd to him now that he never had. No wonder she never believed him or trusted him when they were together, when he told her he loved her. He hadn't behaved like a man in love. His and Peyton's and Nathan's and Haley's worlds being constantly on the cusp of ending was no excuse, really. He just haven't been able to bring himself to unbend that much, and he'd assumed somehow that it wouldn't matter, because Brooke had always accepted him — needed him — just as he was. That she might like to be needed a little in return haven't occurred to him back then. Hindsight is seriously a bitch.

Finally they are crossing the courtyard again. Lucas tries to dodge the puddles, but his Chuck's are already soaked. The rain has stopped sometime during breakfast, but the sky is low and steely, and there is an ominous stillness to the heavy air.

"I didn't want to tell you myself, but I think you should know," Mouth starts talking unexpectedly. "The nurse said that if you really were her husband, you'd take her home to America."

"_If_ I was?" Huh. Smart nurse.

"She said Brooke has an uncanny strength to get better. That she should have died a few months ago, when Tan Guan Heng brought her in. They all thought she'd die. She said the Lord spared her."

"The Lord wouldn't know what to do with her," Lucas definitely doesn't, "I'm sure He's in no hurry to take on _that_ responsibility."

The rain starts again. There is no preliminary pattering, it's like a sluice opening. They are both drenched at once, and run for the building where Brooke allegedly works.

"The nurse said there must be something wrong with her heart," Mouth continues dully, and Lucas just shrugs, because he knows. Something is wrong with her heart because she broke it for him. For Peyton, and Haley, and Nathan, and Jamie, but mostly for him.

Hell, if he's not in that same position himself.

There, by her door, sheltered from the pouring wall, Mouth tells him that unless Lucas wants him to stay, he's going to move on. There is someone waiting for him in Taipei.

"Someone you're in love with?"

Mouth's face lights up a little, for the first time.

"That's really good, I'm happy for you," Lucas says, and thanks him, and feels a tiny sting of jealousy reverberating through his limbs. But he is.

Happy, that is, for his friend.

This time they hug; Lucas is glad they haven't before, because now it means something. They aren't really friends again just yet, and he might never see Mouth again, but he's been acting like they are good friends still, and Lucas makes sure he knows it's appreciated. He doesn't promise to write or call, neither does Mouth, and maybe that's what adulthood feels like, but Lucas is convinced he'll come through should Marvin McFadden ever need him again. This mum promise is equal parts who he was and who Lucas wants to be again.

He jogs up the worn, slippery stairs and enters the shabby door with a '17' on it, without knocking this time. Helloes her awkwardly.

Brooke doesn't answer, not that he expects her to, but at least nods. Today she seems more accepting of his presence. She is, once again, sitting up in the rattan chair, although a different one, reading something that appears to be important, wearing nothing but a white tank top and the thin peasant trousers he could mistake for tight pajama bottoms. Of course Brooke would never actually wear a pair of pajamas in public. He can bet she doesn't even own a pair of pajamas.

Lucas can see sinews in her hands he's sure haven't been there before, and he can feel his heart tighten a little at the sight. There's history there, one he doesn't even know of, let alone a book he can just read. He's missed on so many chapters now, and not just from the past ten months, he can't conceive catching up, can't be sure his heart will continue beating through it.

He holds a hand out, then, after a few more seconds, snaps his fingers.

Brooke holds her own hand up, fingers asking for two minutes. After she's done reading, she brings her gaze reluctantly to his face.

"So, Lucas." She pauses. "I figured you won't rid me of your heroism quite that easily." Is he supposed to answer to that, now?

"Sounds damn snooty when you say that." At least she's talking to him, but he doesn't say it out loud.

"I don't mean to." She sighs dolefully. "Why won't you leave? Why do you insist on putting me through it and through it and through it again?" And Lucas can't really pretend he doesn't know what she's talking about.

She isn't shouting — her voice is almost a croon. She seems to shrink into the chair, to become smaller and frailer. Curling away from him. He recons he'd prefer it if she threw a hysterical fit.

"Brooke… you know if things were the other way, and tables were turned... if it was me who was putting myself in situations like these... you wouldn't leave me." He hopes… no, he _trusts_ her not to leave him. And it kills him that this trust not reciprocated.

"Please." It's barely a whisper caressing his ear.

One word, so full of pleading it's almost a sob. Lucas blushes, for himself as well as for her. She's pale, exhausted, and probably doesn't want him to see her this way.

But he still can't force himself to leave. He knows he'll stay here as long as it takes to either see her better, or see her return to the States, preferably Tree Hill where he and Haley and hell, even Peyton can cuddle her into submission.

_Madame_ Davis.

"Did you get married?"

She raises her face, squinting, hairs sticking to her cheeks. There's a mysterious smile rearranging her face into a visage that's heartbreakingly familiar.

"What's your middle name?" He tries again, desperate for any scrap of information that will chip the palpable wall between them.

But she just shakes her head, amused, her weak moment forgotten.

"Fine, I don't care!" Except he does, really. "But you can't hold out on me, Brooke! How did you survive the storm in Singapore?"

"Just didn't die." Her amusement grows proportionally to his exasperation.

"OK... then why are you here now?"

"Wouldn't you like to know." Which comes out downright bitchy, yet feels completely deserved because Lucas is attacking her and he knows it. He doesn't really mean to, even, but there aren't many other options available to him at the moment.

He takes a deep breath and exhales all the fight out, forcefully relaxing his posture. "Brooke, I would. I really would." And he tries to sound as sincere as he feels, but remembers at least a dozen occasions when he gave her his most sincere promises that turned out a fraud. A whole memoire of a book is testament to that shameful fact.

Her snort is full of disdain, but after a second she seems to copy his purging breathing exercise. "They're all dead, you know."

"Who is?" He is a little bit afraid of the clarification. There's already a visual in his over-imaginative brain, mostly of Vietnam war footages from before either of them were born, terrifying nonetheless.

"People, Luke. They all went down fighting for their lives. Thousands of them. I think I saw at least that many. What was it your fiancée slash wife slash my backstabbing friend Peyton used to say? People always leave? Screw the emo whining, people hold on till it bleeds them to death." It's a random remark, one that would lead them into a disjointed conversation, but all he can hear is Peyton's name.

It is as if she's struck him in the chest suddenly with a club. His breath hitches, and fails him. He can't even begin to hide his reaction, and knows she is watching him, watching him with a greedy kind of satisfied anger. To his own embarrassment, she gets what she expects. Instead of grieving for the deaths she's seen, he grieves his love for Peyton, and it only takes Brooke mentioning her name for Lucas to crack. Despite all that, he manages to talk, to insist on the point he's been fruitlessly trying to make.

"You gotta come back to you life, Brooke, and this isn't it. You live in some shithole, probably with rats, and roaches and their creepy little antlers, and you're obviously sick! The nurse said you almost died a few months ago, for Pete's sake. That there's something wrong with your heart." Right, he broke it. "I'm not leaving you. This isn't about Peyton, or even me. This is about _you_." And somehow, he doesn't choke on the name when he speaks it himself, it slips out smoother then it ever had in the past five months.

"I'm 24, Luke, and I've taken care of myself since I was 12. If you're so desperate for that information, I'm healthy enough as is my heart. It's probably in better condition then yours. So piss off. You can give me money if ya like, I don't refuse donations, hell, I _am_ here to get donations, but don't martyr me and teach me how to live my life. You're not allowed to start caring now. You have a family to meet those heroic needs of yours now." He feels the weight of her gaze even in the midst of the torrent of hurt and anger that rises up to engulf him. Spots dance in front of his eyes as they argue pointlessly back and forth for another ten minutes, unknowingly jumping up and getting in each other's faces, noses and tempers almost bumping, and this time words blur into an almost indecipherable background noise where she claims to be too strong to need help.

To need him.

"I need to work." She turns away eventually, as if this is a resume of a business meeting, and Lucas feels disappointment and helplessness flood into the stream of emotions that already engulfed him.

Somehow he gets himself up, and out. Contemplates her from his spot by the door. Sighs. "And we need to talk. I'll be at your place for dinner." She rolls her eyes.

Okay, so far, this isn't going well. Every encounter ends with her throwing him out, hurling something at him verbally, something that _hurts_.

And it also hurts to see her obviously in so much pain. Wanting to live punishing herself. Brooke never was much of a masochist. He'd seen her at some low ebbs in the past, but she'd always clung to her sense of bubbly, confident self.

But what hurts the most is that Peyton and Brooke are so intertwined in his heart now, apparently, that Brooke can turn the sound of his wife's name into a weeping wound as easily as make him not think about her.

He hasn't a slightest idea what he's going to do back there with her tonight, can't find the words, any words, and that's pretty shitty for a bestselling author. What can turn this situation around? Walking back to the hotel in the relentless rain, his head aching, Lucas looks for some idea, some angelic intervention, maybe some epiphany. Just something.

In the downpour, he turns his face up. Every edge between them is sharp right now, cutting deep, drawing blood. Peyton would have cried right now. This new Brooke 2.0 is singular, driven, changed. But she's probably crying, too.

…x…

The sky above is the color of television, tuned to a dead channel, Brooke thinks, unable to not stare through the window in fear of looking into Lucas' eyes. It's not the looking she's afraid of, she contemplates, but what she might _see_ there. It's so easy to drown in those eyes, yet nearly impossible to actually sink.

At some point in this stupid fight she's initiated to avoid explaining herself, before he can promise to save her, _again_, she cups his chin jerking his face down, forcing him to read the truth in her eyes. She refuses to be saved by Lucas Scott.

She gives him moments of retribution in their confrontation. She understands and loves the boy he once was enough to allow him a tiny victory. But she will fight him every step of the way to retain the life she's so carefully and meticulously build for herself. She tells herself she doesn't really care if Lucas still likes her life or not, tells herself she's not that girl anymore.

But she can't control the hot scrape of her own anger – and tenderness – at his visits, because her fingertips seem to remember the feel of his face and itch with it, and because she never loved anyone except Lucas Scott, as much as Lucas Scott.

Not really.

And at the thought, the bile rises at the back of her throat like the shores of the Styx and she doesn't resist it. God, she hates that she can still smell his old hoodie when she's this close to him.

And he can't even remember her middle name.

Pushing his face away, she backs off furiously running her fingers through her hair, tugging at the roots hoping it will all come off in her hands so that she can start over.

She chokes back the laugh when he promises, _swears_ that he's doing something for her, and she remembers when she still believed in those infamous promises of his. It was before her eighteen's birthday, before she believed the lie that she was something special.

If only she'd stayed suspended between her best friend and her boyfriend and remained true to herself. Followed her natural avarice for riches and fame instead of pretending she was something else – someone more... She wouldn't be this shell – gutted, boneless – dry on the inside. The last year's events leaving nothing but an itch for death that she is too cowardly to scratch.

And Lucas promises her dinner also, and that's his only promise she can somewhat trust.

She doesn't really know why she agrees to it, wouldn't be able to provide an answer should someone actually ask. It might be just a legit excuse to be in the same room as him without having to call an ambulance as a result of the meeting, although God knows she was never that violent before the Peyton/Lucas/herself noxious love triangle.

Brooke tries in futile to work for ten minutes after Lucas leaves, then gives up, dropping her head on her hands, crossed over the tabletop. There is a weight there, a cross she almost can't bare.

"Let's talk." Brooke doesn't sense Mouth before he's behind her, his hands gentle and warm on her shoulders. He smells of dark woods and deep pools, and part of her wants to sink into him and disappear. The thought doesn't bother her like it should which makes her even more sure she's fucked up.

"Why won't you let at least _him_ help you?" He asks.

"You need to get over your crap quick, buddy. I don't need help, and I've got more important things to deal with then Luke." Brooke's not even sure what comes easier now, lying or breathing, because Lord knows she exerts tremendous effort for a supposedly effortless inhale/exhale operation.

Her eyes rise to stare into Lucas's wake, body still reels from his leftover smell. "My crap is fine, thank you." He turns her and her chair, exhibiting more strength then she thought him capable of. "How's yours?"

Brooke thinks he's better at denial since he left Tree Hill. And different. He's definitely less funny.

"We could stand here and out bitch each other until you grow enough facial hair to play both Tubbs and Crocket, or you could just tell me what you came here to tell." She mumbles, mostly just for the reason that he expects an answer, and there's still confrontation coursing through her.

"Right. Back to normal Brooke the bitch it is then."

Normal? He's right. This is normal now.

"Mouth," she conveys her impatience with one word.

She knows, despite how much he's changed, he misses the old Brooke. They all probably do. And, there's a small part of her brain that feels guilty for not bouncing back like she did the last few times she was stripped of all control and left broken.

This is different. This has changed her at a cellular level, her blood running thick and cold in stiff veins.

"I want you to come home with him." Yet that word, home, doesn't sound remotely warm in his, ironically, mouth, and Brooke wonders just how much he believes in that town anymore, one that's not even on the North Carolina maps.

Mouth thinks it's the storm and the deaths and her past illness (which she's almost recovered from, thank you very much) that keep her at a distance from Tree Hill. That she doesn't call them, or hug them or laugh with them because she still remembers nature defiling the world, stripping people of their lives.

What he doesn't realize is that storm is not… has nothing to do with her hometown, although it is something that keeps her bawling into her salty pillow. He does know that what keeps her up most nights are thoughts of the storm. That the nightmares that wake her with shivers and sweat when she does manage to sleep are images of last breaths. But she won't ever come home because she was desecrated there, and because of all of their betrayal and the consequent bone-wracking loneliness.

She has lost her family when she so dreadfully needed them, and she can't tell them that they sliced and bled her more effectively than a tsunami ever could. Brooke had faith in them – a brighter, truer faith than she had in God, in her goddamn parents, and even in herself.

They were her religion and her God left her behind to elope to Vegas, or just cuddle with their son.

Lucas – her body shakes just thinking his name – was the ultimate treachery. He betrayed her with a kiss. Took her heart and her friends and her substitute mother and her home and her trust and her hope. Took all of his promises back. And had the audacity to smile lazily at her after that, hugging his new fiancée with one idle hand. Brooke knows she still loves Lucas more than life. But she also knows that love is what finally destroyed her.

…x…

The rain is a fine mist that barely seems worth repelling.

Lucas's wasting his time walking around. Literally, too. It was mid-morning when he's gone to Brooke's office with Mouth, and it is late afternoon now. His eyes, normally narrow, feel shrunken in their sockets, his whole body aches dully, and he can't account for all of his movements. Can't account for the incredible sadness that comes up and up in relentless slow bubbles that burst painfully in his chest, over and over. And it doesn't stop _raining_.

He hasn't felt like this for a while, this helpless and juvenile and utterly crushed. Hasn't lost control of himself this way at all since his biological father shot his real one. Felt that everything was shit, that there was no place to go, no home anymore. Felt the indestructible nothingness ringing in his ears. Since that one funeral, he's locked himself in some sort of impenetrable capsule and hasn't allowed himself to feel pain, to care at all. But Vietnamese rain (or Brooke Davis, probably) is scorching acid, disintegrating whatever defensive mechanisms he's been capable of conjuring.

He's already wrote an autobiography, back when memories of having true emotions were vivid. But if he wants to be honest with himself, which he rarely does, he's to start again, with brief curriculum vitae of a sketchy introspection. Since Keith, nothing really startled him anymore; nothing was really able to penetrate the daze he was in. Not when Brooke decided he didn't love her, not when Peyton decided he did, not when his mom turned out pregnant, or sold the café, not when his brother was incapacitated or his best friend sexually harassed, not even when he identified Keith's murderer as his own fucking father, not when he was left at the alter or his nephew kidnapped or even when he found his wife in bed with another man three months into their marriage. Yes, this capsule of his faltered, shimmered, but never shattered. He just went with the flow, half drowning but not really fighting to stay afloat. Yet somehow, Lucas still remembers that mute incredulity of discovery, how it seeps and then crashes over him and then seeps again and crashes again, remembers it's repetitive cruelty, how it can come back and still not be any less. How he grieves.

He wasn't prepared for Peyton to betray him and leave him with no one. And he wasn't prepared for Brooke to die and live him this void. And today, when suddenly resurrected Brooke mentioned the third angle to the damned geometry shape of his mess of a love life, he wasn't prepared for how much he still feels it is not over, how much he still loves Peyton and Brooke, _both, _even though he doesn't want to, hates it, hates himself for it. Lucas thinks he ought to be disgusted with himself, but he revels in the new-found ability to be surprised again. Celebrates the collapse of his numbness. Even though mostly, he just feels how excruciating it is to know neither woman is his anymore.

He's in the café, a different one from where he met Mouth on that first day, rain crashing against the glass façade. A policeman has brought him here. He found Lucas wandering in the depths of the slums, by the river. A lost tourist. He didn't really understand a word the guy said, but he let the official herd him back to the semi-civilized French streets, and put him in a chair here, just two blocks away from his hotel. He nodded as he was lectured on incomprehensibly, and then he offered some money, which were first refused, but promptly accepted anyway. The policemen said something to the barmen, and nodded before leaving.

The beers keep coming, and he's on his third bottle. The thirst is sudden and terrible. He stares at patterns the rain draws on windows, and they remind him vaguely of Klimt and long breathless nights of lazy, drawn-out sex. While he waits on hour to turn decent for the pledged dinner, he feels unconsciously at his shoulder, at the intricate tattoo there. A Chinese symbol, another tribute to Brooke's love of all things Asia. For a while there – for eight torturous months – he thought that was all that remained of Brooke, the only bit of proof left that she's ever existed.

There are no physical brands by Peyton on his body, except that sudden random itch of his ring finger, but his relationship with Peyton wasn't really ever about physical at all. And he thinks that maybe that's a good thing – the lack of marks. Maybe, it would have been wise to remove the tattoo as well. He doesn't know. Not that his life now would be any easier to bear if that is the truth.

Besides, Lucas just knows how excruciatingly bad removing it would _hurt_.

Both physically and not.

His cell phone is slick and warm in his hand – everything here is slick and warm, there is nothing that could possibly feel refreshing to the touch. He wants to talk to Nathan, but doesn't really know what to say and breathing in the phone isn't his cup of tea, or bottle of beer for that matter.

He puts the phone back in his pocket. Because if he talks to Nate, he'll have to answer some of his brother's questions, like why hadn't he gone to Tree Hill to see them and finally forgive Peyton and get back with her, like why hasn't he been to the States for almost half a year now. And he's OK with telling all that to Nathan. He's just not willing to allow any of those answers to form for himself. Brooke's alive, and it just tears at him so much, that on top of everything else, he's not sure he'll be able to salvage his safety stupor capsule that's been damaged enough today. And he doesn't really know how to survive without it.

He can't really label these past months as hell. If he were still one to quote, Anton Chekhov once said that you can _"cut a good story anywhere, and it'll bleed"_. And there are many bad things one can say about Lucas Scott, but he writes damn good fiction, autobiography or not. And all of them bleed. He wrote a book about high school that's screaming teenage angst from every other page. He hopes he's matured since then.

The first year after graduation, he's concentrated on getting settled in college, on getting to know Lily and James, on helping Karen and Haley and Nate. On keeping his relationship alive through distance. On getting the book published. Next year, he didn't really care quite as much. He's just concentrated on doing all the things he's felt deprived of all his life, because he was the bastard son with not much money to spare. He learned to ski at Kurshavel, and to do deep-sea diving in Curacao. He's met attractive new people, screwed good-looking model-like girls, and drank, partied and not written a single word. Money was no longer a worry — the publisher gave him a lump sum, he, with the help of Andy Hargrove, carefully invested to yield a nice income. But this rampage wasn't really in direct consequence to finally getting money. Peyton said she wanted to follow her dream rather then become his family when Karen and Lily didn't really _need_ him anymore. Well, she said she wanted them both to follow their dreams, but, when he thinks about it, if she meant it, she'd know that having a family was the only dream of his truly worth pursuing. Then after about nine months of doing nothing in particular, he got involved with Lindsay, an all-around nice girl, and sort of settled. Few words were left in the wake of the delete button, so he didn't bother writing. There was no need to, or so he told her, and so he told himself. He was free then, financially independent, his life expectancy was that of most after he quit basketball and drama-filled romance, and he could do anything he liked, heart medication or not. Many ideas occurred to him, as he flitted around, and he meant to look into them very seriously. Doing some legitimate volunteer work, like maybe building houses for homeless families of Katrina victims. Joining the Peace Corps. Coaching a high school basketball team. He planned to decide on something, once the novelty of all the freedom wore off a little. He missed his mom like crazy, Haley was working hard in Tree Hill High School, Nate was struggling through depression Lucas couldn't quite understand. Not when his brother had everything he himself ever dreamed of. He wasn't at the center of his family and friends' lives anymore. There was nothing to be the center of.

But then Peyton decided to return to Tree Hill, acting as if she never rejected him and then ignored him for months, years even, refusing to see him or talk to him. Actually acting as if she was _entitled_ to just _demand_ him back because her own dreams disappointed her.

With Lindsay getting jealous and insecure and abandoning him in true Dan Scott manner, Peyton stepping beyond the borders within which he was comfortable, him longing for something new and getting a weird tight feeling of being trapped in his chest, and Brooke just _being there_, Lucas packed a bag, bought two tickets and flew the supposed love of his life to Vegas. For no particular reason except that Vegas was the destination of the flight about to depart, and eloping sounded like a brilliant idea and a need for a family and a love for Peyton were both shaped within him, clutching on his insides.

Five months and a week, a death of Brooke Davis and Peyton not even having sex, but _making love_ to her all-around perfect ex Julian Baker, later, he found himself across the globe in Goa.

He came across a love of moving water in India, and wrote seventeen decent chapters in there in just the first two weeks. Chapters that Lindsay loved. Lucas Scott could suddenly write again. He could write anywhere _but_ his hometown. He returned once for Jamie's birthday, only to be disappointed in general, and a little pathetic around his blonde wife in particular, trembling with repressed emotions. He filed for divorce the next day.

The next month, he still hasn't made his mind up about anything except Peyton, he was still flitting around, changing exotic locations in some twisted attempt to do what Peyton ordered him to do a very long time ago and chase what she believed was his dream. In true Peyton fashion, she wasn't satisfied whatever he did. She left winded messages on his voicemail and cried whenever he bothered to pick up the phone. She pleaded the mistake excuse, and never meaning to hurt him, and all he heard was 'karma' and figured that he knows how much of actual feeling went into such mistakes and not really meaning to hurt anyone. So he decided on not thinking and having fun.

But unlike college, the fun was less fun.

He's walked away from home before, at least he tried, but something always came up to pull him back in. For the last month, he's wondered once in a while what it would be this time, and how soon. But nothing ever came up, until Brooke Davis came back to life through Mouth's phone call. Until now, when he found her gloriously alive, even if bitter and angry.

For the longest time after graduating from high school, and then after returning from New York that one day so long ago, he didn't think about Brooke at all, and Lucas thinks of this now as ironic. His mind just closed up shop on the whole relationship, and she wasn't in the vicinity as a constant reminder either. Everything was as far away and unrecalled as his time in first grade, back when he didn't know Nate was his brother and was actually best friends with him for five whole weeks until they fought over a toy truck. Once in a while she'd turn up in a dream, but the details melted away as soon as he awoke.

It was Karen who brought that to an end. About the time of the four year reunion no one showed up for, weeks before she left home, she started wanting to talk about high school, talk about the last few years. She was troubled a little, but that might have been the inside mother talking. She worried that she hasn't cared enough about her children. Himself. Lily. Haley.

"You were never uncaring towards Haley. I never heard you be unkind to any of us. I don't know what you're talking about. You're just inventing things to feel bad about."

"Brooke. I haven't even talked to Brooke after you broke up with her."

Somehow, hearing her name pass his mother's lips shocked Lucas down to the ground in that moment. He stiffened all over, was on the verge of rapping out an order to be quiet about her.

And he couldn't grasp his own reasoning. Why shouldn't Karen talk about Brooke? Talk about anything she needed to talk about? So he could only focus on one misconception everyone seemed to have about him and Brooke and their demise.

"_She_ broke up with _me_, mom," and Lucas was feeling insulted that he had to remind his mother of the fact, not really understanding where the feeling came from, or why.

"Whatever you choose to believe, honey."

And he didn't have any answer to his mother.

"I never even asked her if she were OK. I meant to, in my heart, but I never asked. I should have offered her to move in when she gave up her apartment for Haley. We were such good friends, she was like my daughter, and then we weren't anymore, and then she must have thought I hated her." His mom paused, pensive and gloomy. "She thought we all hated her, I guess. No wonder she left first chance she got."

"I didn't hate her. She knew that." Lucas said that with such conviction back then. Now, he isn't so sure. Not sure at all, after she left Tree Hill that second time, with a single voice message that wasn't even addressed to him (yet forwarded and listened to and overanalyzed until he was braindead).

But that day, Karen just looked startled. Then she said, "... I didn't know you were on speaking terms," and walked out of the room. And he spent hours trying to figure it out. Did he talk to Brooke after the break up? Did she talk to him? And he couldn't remember.

And he didn't have any similar talks with anybody when Brooke up and left Tree Hill weeks after his engagement, but he rewound those short weeks in his hard drive of a memory over and over again, and he can't recall a single conversation with her either.

Recently, Brooke appears in his dreams more. Now that he is celibate again and Peyton was forcefully exiled from his mind, some of those dreams are rather X-rated. He thinks about her, because somehow she is just who he pictures when he feels sexy, when he imagines himself having sex. He thought about Brooke, but not too often. Mostly because to the best of his knowledge she died, and besides his heart literally breaking every time he was forced to recognize that fact, fantasizing that way about someone who was dead is a little too morbid. Not that he can help his dreams and their content or rating.

Then some nights he remembers waking up gasping, in tears. He cried for hours, a deluge of weeping that seemed bottomless. Those nights, he understood, in a deep physical way that made it hard to draw breath, that Brooke was dead and Peyton was a liar and a cheater and not just _with_ him, but _to_ him. His body ached with missing them. Lucas suddenly didn't feel finished with Brooke anymore; he was far, far from finished. He thought Brooke died misunderstanding him, and there would never be a chance to put that right.

Now, he barely knows what to think any longer, and Brooke doesn't seem like the person he imagined all this time.

He never discussed this with his friends, not that he discusses much with them anymore, but these last few months when he turned down women who were interested in him, he gave this belated mourning of his as an excuse, not his still official marriage. He just gave the impression that there had been a fiancé or a soulmate whom he could not betray by moving on. It didn't hurt that this made him seem rather alluring even as he was saying no.

He doesn't know what to do now, what can come of the dinner with Brooke. They always were either lovers or they were wanting to be lovers or they were trying not to be lovers so that they can be friends, but any way you look at it, love is always looming in the picture like a shadow, like an undertow. Like rain.

…x…


	5. Just In Case We Were Perhaps to Meet

I know, I know, it's been ages! But here's the next chapter. To everybody who's expressed concern about the future of this story – I'm never leaving anything unfinished! It might take me a while still, but this story will get there. And thank you, girls who PMed me and kicked my ass into gear. I love my reviewers – you know who you are. Another funny thing – I got my first fanfiction request. And I'm seriously considering doing it, so if you, by any chance, decide there is a particular one-shot you want to see – please don't hesitate. It actually makes me write faster. Oh, and I apologize for the sappiness of this chapter. I was just in that mood lately…

* * *

Chapter 4. **Just In Case We Were Perhaps to Meet**

_I'll never tell you anything;  
discounts on heartaches  
and I still can't afford it._

**/****Umbrella Sequence****/**

…x…

"I want to know what happened when your boutique was robbed," Lucas bursts through the door, sending wayward droplets flying into the room. He didn't bother with pleasantries, but she's pretty certain she doesn't need them anymore. Politeness has somehow erased itself from her list of priorities.

She rises from her favorite rattan chair, blinking against the sight of him, each time a little less shocking but still nothing to be casual about. He's breathing heavily, as if he ran all the way from the hotel to her place and all the demons of his past, followed by Dan, were chasing him.

"I would've thought you'd ask Deb," but Brooke tears her eyes away from him. She's too weak to handle his pity, too scared to see his judgment.

"I did!" Lucas shouts, shaking his head at her. "I asked her over and over, we all did, I heard the whole story from her three times – about as much as I could stomach."

Brooke shivers unconsciously at the way he says that last part, rubs her shoulders and wonders why he thinks she can stomach telling it. It can't be easier then hearing it. So she steels her limbs and shields her gaze and faces him armed and almost prepared.

"Well, if you talked to Deb, why do you want my version?"

"Because I _need_ to know, Brooke," he whispers, "because you have got to go _home_." There is too much unidentified emotion in his voice when he says the word. Funny how Tree Hill is still referred to as home, by Mouth, by Luke, by herself, yet this reference is more bitter then anything else. Brooke doesn't quite believe in home the way she used to.

"Well, you saw the bruises. You know the store was broken into while I was there. I know math wasn't your favorite, but it isn't that hard to add those together." She figures Lucas will have to use his acclaimed imagination, being a _visionary_ author and all, because going into more detail makes her want to take that gun she still owns from its hiding place just to feel the smooth, cool surface and raw power at her fingertips.

"What exactly… did he…" Lucas stutters which is kind of funny considering, and there's a light strawberry blush across his cheekbones that she thinks both adorable and out of place. It's barely visible in the pool of electricity yet distinctly there and distinctly _Lucas_, the way she remembers him from high school.

"You're not comfortable asking me the questions, how do you think _I_ feel having to answer them?" She's intent on making Lucas work to get the answers if he wants them. It's the only power she has left over him, and not a single piece of information will slip out unless he earns it. Brooke's too broken to be put back together just like that, she knows that well.

Lucas gulps at her comment, and swiftly changes the direction. "OK, well, why did I not hear about it then? Why didn't you come to talk to any of us?"

She feels hysterics rising up to her throat and blocking the words from coming out, so she has to gulp, herself, just to get around the answer. "I talked to Deb, didn't I? In fact, I called Peyton first." And heard about their wedding plans, and suddenly drawing a breath deep enough to say _that_ was impossible. Because her best friend was getting on with her life, with _their_ man, being happy. And Brooke wasn't selfish enough to ruin their bliss.

"My phone was off. Peyton wasn't taking any calls until that one of yours. And we were off to Vegas and LA." Lucas seems sober, recounting the facts with a calm demeanor.

"Yup," Brooke turns away and takes a seat on the edge of her bed, finally, gesturing at Lucas to do the same, offering him the only chair available.

But Lucas just resumes a measured pacing, back and forth in rhythm with his words.

"I had to get away. And I had to make a choice. And she seemed like the only one I had. And then it was so good, you know… To pretend like nobody else exists. I didn't mean to leave you behind, or take her away from you, and even if I did, I could never…"

Brooke holds her palm up to block the rest of his sentences. "You don't have to apologize for wanting to get away, or wanting to elope. Or even for wanting to ignore _me_ for a while." She thinks it's OK. She wants it to be OK.

"I'm not apologizing for what I did, just for _how_ I did it." And he's breathing hard again, almost sobbing and it makes her face and chest feel so congested she can burst with her own tears. "I got a little too caught up in my own life."

Brooke snickers, "Yeah, you tend to do that." He looks up, hurt, but swallows his response. "But then, yours and Haley's student was shot and none of you questioned the bruises even when you saw them… And Haley suggested I go to the therapist. I guess life just turned out that way…"

"No, Brooke," nobody ever says her name like he does. Like a prayer. "Don't say that. Don't think that Quentin's death could ever stop any of us from caring about you."

She leaned back on her elbows, her pose getting more relaxed. "You would like to think so." It occurs to her that, in some way or the other, he honestly believes that he cares about her. That he takes care of her.

"What I would like to think is that you're home, safe and healthy. I want you to go back to the family." There it is again, that tone of voice that tells her Lucas misses home and family yet isn't ready to face them, almost as if he's terrified of it all. Brooke thinks she should know how he feels. She should, but she doesn't.

"I'm not part of the Scott family, though." Lucas sighs at that and looks down for a brief second.

"You know you are." But she's already shaking her head. "For one, my last name isn't Scott." He flinches at the implication, and she does as well, realizing that it came out in a different way then she intended. Brooke doesn't mean to bring Peyton in this discussion any more then the blonde already is, and she definitely doesn't ever want to question their marriage. In fact, she left the continent to find her own way, her own happiness. Yet apparently, Tree Hill and Lucas Scott aren't quite done with her yet.

"Look, Luke, I'm alive and well, no thanks to you, but that's all there is to it. You're not 'the guy for me' anymore, so the rest is no concern of yours. I'm just a gal you used to know who wants to get on with her life, OK?" Those are just careless, barbed remarks, but they manage to cover up her insecurity around him well enough.

"I promised I would save you." And just like that, with one simple response, he manages to pinpoint why she couldn't fall in love with anyone else for almost seven years. But she doesn't want to think of it now. She's accepted the inevitability of her love for Lucas Scott the same as his inability to give his whole heart to one woman and not take it back. She once hoped he'd grow out of it, but she's terrified of hoping these days.

After minutes of angst-ridden silence, Lucas comes up with another question. "So… Are you coming home? At least, are you going to talk to me?" When she sighs and runs her fingers through her hair, he rises impatiently from the chair to knee in front of her form on the bed.

"I… I wish I could, Luke…" she hates that the cold tone of her voice can not be maintained long enough, not when he looks at her like that. "Please, just abide with me if you're not gonna leave me alone."

"I'm not," he whispers, grazing her fingers with his, and standing up just to sit one the bed next to her. Lucas falls back on his elbows, copying her stance from a couple of minutes ago, and she joins him in studying her cracked ceiling.

They've always had the most comfortable silences.

Lucas is the first to break. "But what are you doing _here_?" There's none of the frustration in his voice, he exudes patience and a certain sense of calm envelops her from just the sound of his voice. How can she explain the loneliness to a guy who's never been truly alone? Not the feeling of abandon that he's all too familiar with, but the utter emptiness of the world, the quiet, the absence?

So she doesn't. She just turns away from him and fumbles with the hem of her top to keep her hands occupied and distracted from the tingling her fingers still feel from the brief contact.

When she thinks Lucas is asleep he suddenly gets up and gets to cleaning. Brooke watches in silent fascination as he moves slowly in the drenching heat, first carrying all the dirty glasses and dishware into the mean little kitchen. Cleaning up the mess of documents, newspapers, books and a couple of drawings. He pauses on the drawings, noticing that those aren't sketches of designs but true art. Brooke smiles a little, guessing he's never in all those years imagined Peyton wasn't the only talented artist in town. Brooke has her own style, very different from that of her best friend, and she prefers watercolors and oil to black and white pencil pieces her once best friend used to make, but the drawings he's looking at so intently are simply the result of her boredom on a couple of town council meetings she had to attend, and she only had a ball pen on her then. Still, he seems impressed and she's stupidly flattered with his reaction. Brooke even kind of wishes he paid enough attention and she had enough security in their dating days for him not to look quite as shocked now at such a simple revelation.

Lucas goes back to his self-imposed task of cleaning pretty soon, though. He must know she's watching him, yet he makes no sign to account for it. There's not that much to do, yet once he starts he seems to really get into it. In fact, he seems in the zone, and Brooke guesses he's missed doing simple chores that remind him of home, moving from one hotel room to another.

Brooke imagines there must be something vaguely abasing for Lucas in doing her housework, but he seems to welcome the feeling. She welcomes watching him doing it, herself, it provides her feelings around Lucas certain specificity, simple gratitude for washing dishes, sweeping, putting things right, and cooking.

It's probably been an hour and she must have dozed off at some point when Lucas approaches her and touches her shoulder gently. "The dinner will be ready soon," there is a delicious smell of pancakes around the apartment, something she hasn't had in a while and misses terribly. "I'll make the bed."

For some reason, she feels no shame in letting him, just nods towards the chest under the window, not littered with papers anymore.

"You can take a shower while I'm at it, too."

"This doesn't mean we're suddenly friends, Luke." She purposefully wants to anger him with this remark; she's uncomfortable with the comfort of the mood enveloping them both. Yet he's not angry, and he sends her an understanding smile, and her own discomfort collapses under its influence.

"I know." He looks away for a second and mumbles so quietly she barely understands, "but you did call me Luke."

She grumbles as she gets up, more for show then anything, and stifles the urge to slam the bathroom door behind her. This is not going good. Just a couple of hours and he already is getting to her softer side, an ability he shouldn't possess after all this time.

Yet somehow, he does.

And she can't quite bring herself to regret it.

…x…

She stays in the bathroom so long after the water isn't running anymore that Lucas starts wondering if Brooke's back to ignoring him or avoiding him But when she finally cracks the door open and peaks carefully, then emerges in fresh clothes – an off-white sundress that transfers his thoughts abruptly to sun-filled daisy fields _and he feels like such a pansy_. It's obvious, though, that she's made an effort and it makes him happy in ways it shouldn't.

"Feel any better?" He asks impatiently, because he's made his mom's chocolate chip pancakes, one of the few things he can manage and coincidentally one of Brooke's favorites. Though he doesn't know as much as he thought he did about Brooke Davis, he remembers all of the things he once knew. And he definitely remembers that both of them love breakfast food, no matter what meal they're actually supposed to have. She's a pancake girl and he's a French toast guy. For some reason he doesn't want to identify, he's really impatient to please her.

She just shrugs, but there's a smile in the corners of her lips and in the tiniest indentation of her dimples.

"I really hope you're hungry. I went out to get some stuff, too." The only thing he risked to buy, gesturing his way through negotiations, is some fruit, and all the time, he was rushing, eager to get back in unreasonable fear that Brooke will disappear before he can return. He's thankful that the marketplace is right outside her apartment, yet is kind of bothered by the dangerous vibe of the neighborhood. "Let's go sit down, OK, buddy?"

"Don't call me that." Brooke is suddenly sharp on the defensive, sort of like a hedgehog with its needles out.

"What shall I call you then?" He's suddenly frustrated again even though he swore to himself to exert all the patience in the world when she's asked him to _abide with her_. The words and her voice cut deep through his insides and seem to reside in his heart now. But he does want to know what to call her now?

_Pretty girl_?

He doesn't dare to ask.

"Just sit at the table, Brooke. You can go back to bitching after we have a normal meal, OK?" He's found some plates and brewed some coffee which is steaming from the mugs now. A stack of heavenly-smelling pancakes make for a satisfying, if a little infantile, meal. Brooke's smile deepens at the sight, and he can't help the joy that spreads through him at the sight.

"Thank you, Luke." This time, she stresses his name, as if to claim that it's a conscious choice of hers to call him that, and he smiles back at her. Nobody says his name like Brooke does – like a prayer. He feels this could actually be getting somewhere.

So he serves the food – a small amount for her, more for himself. Laboring in the heat has roused his appetite more then one quick smoke outside could help.

"I wish I was hungrier, though…" she mumbles, having barely tried eating.

"I don't really care what you wish. I only care to see you eat, and right now, what I say goes. Got it?"

This might have worked, perhaps, if he'd keep his tone lighter, if he'd smiled. If he'd stayed out of her personal space by refraining from moving the plate and fork closer to her and grazing the soft skin of her arm. More importantly, if he'd stop wanting Brooke Davis with this insane intensity.

Lucas finds that he can't even perceive the levels of fear, loneliness and defense Brooke reached and mastered. He can't even notice her withdraw, just knows that there is suddenly an empty spot where laughter and dimples (God how he misses seeing her dimples) and warmth and something very, very close to acceptance was barely a second ago. Brooke doesn't say anything, doesn't look away, and just chews on her pancake slowly.

An hour later, she politely herds him on the street and doesn't even slam the door.

There has to be something he can do to make her talk, to take her home, to save her. There just has to be.

…x…

Next morning, Lucas tries her office first. Then returns to the apartment. He finds in shut up – in his face. He waits around for a while, making a minute inspection of every stall and cart in the market, distributing small coinage to beggar children who might as well have been Slumdog Millionaire castoffs. It's surprisingly not raining, and Brooke doesn't return.

She doesn't show up all day, or all evening.

Lucas entertains a thought of making rounds of Dai Phuong's bars, boutiques, just streets, but knows before he's started that it would be in vain. He doesn't know where they are, he doesn't speak the language. He looks conspicuous. He looks rich and successful and scrawny.

He suddenly realizes that Brooke doesn't. She, somehow, fits.

So it's only on the third morning of him not finding Brooke home that it occurs to him to go back to the infirmary. When the idea hits him, it grips him in a panic – what if she died, for real this time? What if she is in a coma? She has something wrong with her heart, apparently, and lives in a neighborhood so far removed from safe it's not even funny. What of he's missed his chance – _again_ – Lucas starts running.

He has to wait to even be let in the building. Lucas sits in the bare reception room, on a wooden bench under a huge crucifix, terrified. He already knows not to expect anyone to speak English and hopes that he can make himself understood in bits of French he's picked up here and there. Haley's done French in high school, and he's memorized a little conversation since in his travels. Carefully, he assembles sentences in his mind, preparing to spit them out as soon as somebody comes to talk to a tall, white stranger. _Je m'appelle Monsieur Davis _is about as far as he gets.

It doesn't matter. It's not credible that Brooke's even married to him. He knows for certain that the nurse didn't buy that before, when Mouth could still weave a story to convince her. And Brooke would deny even knowing him. She'd probably shout the place down and throw something at him.

That is, if Brooke's here. If she's conscious.

If she's even alive.

It turns out he doesn't need to say any of his painful French sentences; the nurse he's already sort of met appears in the doorway and beckons to him at once.

Brooke is there, on her side, he back to him, in bed in a tiny bare white room, featureless as a cell except for the identical crucifix hanging on one of the walls and the ceiling fan revolving above, providing no comfort whatsoever. Lucas runs around the bed to face her and wants to cry.

There's an IV fixed to her neck, and another in her arm, dripping fluids into her. Lucas feels himself fix on those IVs, thinking they'd be removed for sure if Brooke died, so she has to be alive at least.

"Merci," he murmurs not daring to look away from the girl in the bed, slipping to seat next to her body. Her hand lays flaccid on the blanket, so Lucas curls his own around it. The nurse withdraws, and Lucas listens to the firm tapping of her steps down the corridor. When they're gone, the only sound is the thin whirr of the fan overhead.

He hates to sound like a Simon and Garfunkel song, but he doesn't dare disturb this sound of silence.

Her hand feels not more infused with life than the plastic tube going into it, but when he squeezes her fingers, he can feel a pulsing. And then he touches the place where he can feel the beating of her heart. It's probably only his imagination that it seems indolent, reluctant. Now that he's so close he can tell the differences in this new smell of hers, and what surprises him is the tenderness that yawns open in his heart at all these sad details. Lucas realizes suddenly how desperately he needs another chance to do right by Brooke – maybe not romantically, he doesn't dare entertain those thoughts anymore, but in any way she lets him. He know he'd be glad to have her any way, ill or angry or silent or even belonging to other man, as long as she's not pushing him away anymore. He doesn't think he's ever felt this way about anyone before. There is something squirmy – embarrassing – about how much he's willing to give and how little he's ready to take.

Brooke is still for a long time. The grey light in the room shifts, darkens. At dusk – of what would've been dusk, if not for the rain that started again – she opens her eyes.

Lucas breathes loudly, as if he was holding it inside him all these hours.

"Are you in pain?" He asks, feeling her fingers warm between his own.

"I'm always in pain," Brooke rasps.

Lucas can barely hear her, can barely notice her eyes falling shut again. He's out into the corridor, calling for help.

…x…

As the days elapse, no one makes him leave. Doctors barely check on Brooke, and he soon realizes that her problem isn't physical as much as it is mental. He feeds Brooke the food the nurses bring, pays them to bring something for him to snack on. He napped on the floor the first night; Brooke mostly slept or just stared through the window.

Lucas experiences something like serenity in his uninterrupted vigil. It is something of the redemption, the penitence he's been looking for. Hour by hour, he grows bolder, he takes liberties. From merely holding her hand, to twining his arms around her. To resting his head on her pillow so he can murmur elaborate stories in her ear, to touching his mouth to her warm cheek. To putting his fingers – very gently, carefully – through her hair. Every time Brooke doesn't protest, by word or movement, against these gestures, it gives him enormous pleasure.

Nothing can compare to that one moment when she cuddles back into his form.

He talks to he in low, warm tones, careful to say nothing significant because it can upset her or force her to think. Mostly he looked for new, different ways to repeat the soft assertion that she'll be alright, that he will take care of her. He recognizes this as a sort of ecstasy of tenderness, in which neither the bedpan-and-catheter realities, nor his own exhaustion make any impact on his disposition.

He knows, in his brain and in his heart, that it's horrible and he wants Brooke to get better. Yet there's a part of him that loves Brooke being this way. It gives him a chance Brooke would've never given herself, of her own free will.

On the fourth morning, when Lucas returns from a quick shower, Brooke is suddenly alert. There are no signs of whatever problem she had, she's sober and rational and she frowns when he comes in.

"You still insist on staying here?"

"Yup," he nods, insanely happy to hear her raspy voice.

"You know I don't want you to?" He doesn't know how to answer this, until he remembers a day, not too long ago, when Angie left. Brooke hates to let him see her vulnerable. _Well, she's just gonna have to deal_.

"The thing is, _I_ want to." He plops next to her on the bed and revels in the familiarity of the feeling when he puts his arms around her. "You never left me alone. Not even when I gave you every reason to. Well, turnabout is fair play, right?"

"You're joking?" Her voice is cold, yet her body is warm and soft and fits his own and she doesn't move away, so Lucas' confidence doesn't ebb away.

He finds it in himself to smile.

"Not, actually."

Brooke sighs, and is silent for the longest time. But there's a happiness in his heart that bursts all colors of the rainbow once she moves her body closer to his and adjust her head to lay on his arm.

"I don't know what you want from me…" she whispers, and Lucas thinks it's a beautiful sound.

"Well, I wanted you to talk to me, for starters. And look at that, you are!" He tips her a little smile of victory that turns gentle when Brooke doesn't act angry.

It's probably just because she has no energy to battle him, but it makes the tenderness inside of him grow nonetheless. She looks like a week-old kitten, weak and tired and adorable… and his presence finally, luckily, doesn't torment her.

"You should really listen to me, Luke," she catches the fingers of his other hand in an affectionate gesture. Her squeeze is light, almost not there, but it is. "I can't fulfill this fantasy of yours. I can't fill in for Peyton, so you can be all Mother Theresa and knight in shining armor, and you can think you're responsible for me, but you're not. And you shouldn't."

Dejection never felt as sweet because her hand is still touching his.

"You know where that logic is wrong?" He smiles in her hair, happy to be able to say it. "It's not about the shoulds and shoulsn'ts. It's about what I _want_ to do." Suddenly it doesn't seem important, defending himself. He just wants to reach her, however he can. "I guess I can understand why you hate me, and it seems fair if you do…"

"I don't!" She cuts him off with enough decision and confidence in her voice to make him happy somewhere in the deep recess of his heart.

"Why do you think I'm here?" he starts in another ten minutes of silent cuddling. "I'm told that this amazing girl, who I _love_, but thought was _dead_, is alive. So I come to where she is. You of all people have to understand, there's just nothing else I could have done. I _have_ to do whatever I possibly can for you. I _have_ to get you home. If you just let me _save_ you."

She still doesn't move away, but her voice carries a sadness that terrifies him. "Poor Lucas. You're always too late."

He sighs, and closes his eyes against the wave of this sadness. "When did things change so much?" he asks, not recognizing the tone of their conversations.

"Things aren't different," Brooke whispers back. "Things are just things."

When she falls asleep, Lucas leaves for his hotel room, torrents of rain purifying him of the rest of the universe.


End file.
